


The Men In His Life, Pt I

by Alex_deMorra (Ergo_Sum)



Series: Fence Sitter [15]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, M/M, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-15 03:26:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9216533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ergo_Sum/pseuds/Alex_deMorra
Summary: 28-year-old Micah's professional distance affects his personal relationships. He might have to start resolving his past in order not to lose his future.





	1. Chapter 1

Beto intercepted the five-year-old tornado that barreled toward me and hoisted Raul over a shoulder even before the little guy hada chance to finish yelling my name, “ _Polar!_ ” Breakfast at _Tia’s_ was winding down, populated only by the youngest three, including Raul, a notoriously slow eater, who was foisted back into his seat by Beto, where a small plate of cheese, fruit, and half of a toasted roll waited for him. Pete and Stella sat on either side of Raul’s seat, the former sat upright, chipper as he finished his juice while the latter sat with her hand on her cheek, as she sighed and played with the last of her yogurt.

“Eat,” Tia told him and then turned her attention to the other two, “If you two are done, rinse your plates and finish getting ready for school.”

Raul rubbed a hand on his throat and complained, “I don’t want to eat anymore. It hurts.”

 _Tia_ pressed her wrist against his forehead and then to her own and murmured, “So much for you not catching this flu.”

The best part of two weeks — or perhaps it was the worst part — was this flu that started with a sore throat and quickly evolved into fever, shakes, sweating, chills, and a cough that sounded like they tried to divest themselves of their innards. It started with Ed and went right to K’von, the sordid details of which were regaled to fellow _capoeristas_ by the younger members of the household, who were also the next to catch it. Stella and Luna caught it within hours of each other followed by _Mestre_. _Tia_ fell shortly thereafter. Chaos would have ensued had Beto not wrangled the tweens to pick up the slack. And because no good deed went unpunished, he was next. Then it was Pete’s turn. Finally, Luis got it so bad I was worried he wouldn’t be able to make his deposition today.

And about Luis, where was he?

“Give me five more bites. Don’t look at me like that. Eat. Most of it’s soft,” instructed _Tia_. I didn’t know how she did it — not with those big eyes and that bigger pout. Raul was a quiet kid with a lot of charisma; he didn’t have to say anything for people to know where he was in the room. Even so, it was clear that he wasn’t feeling quite himself.

“Luis! _Polar’s_ here!” K’von yelled down the hallway towards their shared room and then came to the kitchen where he made a point to look me up and down, “Damn, you’re like all GQ and shit!”

“Oi!” _Tia_ cut in, having whipped around with her finger poised, pointing at him. There was no further warning needed. K’von corrected himself, “Uh…you look…good,” and looked to _Tia_ for her approval.

Apparently, he liked my standard uniform for court: a suit in dark gray, a shirt in white, black shoes, black belt, and a striped tie of gray and deep red. The shopping trip was a gift for passing the bar — financed by Dad and carried out by his wife Laura. Their gift was more valuable than I realized at the time. I was set to deck out my wardrobe with vintage suits from a thrift store, splurging only on a tailor to make sure everything fit properly.

In this suit, though? I was treated better. At times the different was subtle but the cumulative effect was not. To realize the effect it would have on a kid was a no-brainer.

Luis appeared next to K’von. Aside from the frustration painted on his face, he had put himself together like we practiced. He was in slacks and a sweater, both black, worn over a button-up shirt. His shoes were polished and his crew cut, fresh as of this past weekend, was neat and styled. Even his fingernails were cut. Everything was exactly right — except for his tie, which was wrinkled and folded into something unidentifiable.

“You want me to show you again?” I asked.

“No,” Luis grumbled. He jerked the fabric from around his neck and handed it to me. “Could you just do it, please?” He stood and looked down while I lifted his collar from behind him in order to tie a Half-Windsor. _Tia_ fussed when I was done. Luis scowled. As he did. And probably thought that neither _Tia_ nor I had seen his little smile when he did so.

Today was his first of several scheduled depositions — one per trial. If this case went as I suspected, the others would plea bargain. Which meant he’d only have to do this once. But whether the next ones happened or not, today’s would be the worst because it would be the first time he’d have to tell his story. It would be to the judge, to the case attorneys, and to a video camera that would feed directly into a private room where twelve jurors and several alternates would view it.

It would be far better than what might have happened as recently as ten or fifteen years ago — and better again for having his own representation. He wouldn’t have to face his attacker in court. He would have a limited set of people who heard his testimony, not the entire courtroom. He had someone who would object on his behalf should there implication that the crime committed had any basis in his actions or preferences at the time.

None of that meant today would be easy on him.

It wouldn’t.

It would be harrowing.

And it started when we approached the metal detector at the federal courthouse. I had already asked him to give me everything he had in his pockets — phone, keys — so he should have been fine. Luis was in front of me and waved through the x-ray machine when he froze.

The line behind us grew. In response, the security officer grumbled. Someone who saw the officer muttered in complaint. Several others got restless. Luis said, “I can’t do this,” and turned on his heel, looked straight past me with wide eyes, and headed to the closest open door he could find. His actions alerted the grumbling security officer of an abnormality and he, in turn, flagged a second officer to accost an already frightened Luis, who automatically shrieked with the contact, despite immediately attempting (and not entirely succeeding) to regain his cool.

I had just enough wherewithal to grab my briefcase before it went through the x-ray machine leaving me separated from my documentation, including my Certificate of Admission, and the paperwork to enter the witness waiting area.

“Luis, it’s cool. Everything is fine, okay?” I spoke calmly and approached to the side of him opposite to the security officer, who, thankfully, wasn’t aggressive as some I’d seen. I’d seen him here before. What was his name? Caruso, that was it — and as I said all this, I made eye contact and nodded slowly with the speed and tempo of the universal code for _help me, this kid is freaking out, he’s never been here before, and I need to get him upstairs, pronto._

Caruso was on it.

In less than five minutes, there was another officer ready to greet us on the other side of the machine and escort us up to the second floor to get checked in, so that Luis could spend the rest of his waiting time to shift uncomfortably in his seat while I plied him with water, snacks, and as many bad jokes as I could remember.

He blanched when he was called.

“Luis,” I said, having learned my lesson not to use this last minute to remind him of the things we went over: _Remember the breathing exercise — focus on exhales. Pause whenever you need to. It’s okay to say a question is confusing. If I raise an objection, wait for the judge’s response before you continue speaking._ It took a handful of times before I realized that even throwing helpful info at them was too stressful. Now I kept it simpler. “It isn’t you that’s on trial. You’re the person helping them and I’m the person helping you. Got it?”

His nod was automatic.

“Hey,” I got Luis’ attention and kneeled so that I met him at eye-level, “this is the right thing to do. I know it’s hard but you got this.” I stayed there until he said, “Okay.”

Once inside the room, the judge introduced herself and gestured toward a smaller, Luis-sized witness chair with a set of dolls, some colored pencils, and a small stack of white paper on the table and slightly to the side of the chair itself. Luis looked at them with horror.

The judge explained, just as I had earlier, “I might ask you to use those to help explain what happened if words get too hard to use. Then she explained how the session would go, how the prosecuting attorney would be asking the questions but that she would very likely ask some herself. “Just to make it easier,” she clarified.

The proceedings began with an opening question, “Luis, has anyone told you to respond to questions in a certain way?”

His face was blank.

“Have you been coached to say anything?”

He looked at me in a panic, his chest raising and lowering more quickly. I took deep slow breaths until he took the hint to do the same. “No, I wasn’t told to say anything. I practiced a few times with _Po_ — uh, Micah.”

“Is Micah here with us in this room?”

“Yeah,” said Luis, with his lip curling up in confusion, “He’s right there. Don’t you know him? He arranged all this.”

“Luis,” the judge coaxed him. “The questions we ask will sometimes feel quite obvious to you. We ask them because we need to be very clear about what you are saying and about who is being referred to. Do you understand?”

He sat back in his chair and scratched the side of his head. His nostrils flared and he swallowed and he said, “yes.”

The prosecuting attorney started with questions to build rapport. _Do you have any pets? Who is your best friend? What’s great about them? Do you have a favorite video game? What else do you do when you aren’t in school?_

Several minutes later the prosecutor moved on to questions that would just as easily reveal nothing as they would spontaneously open up a new line of questioning. _Would you tell me about a time you were happy? Would you tell me about a time you remember being angry?_

Even the most hard-core, insensitive attorneys got queasy in rooms like this. They hated these interviews. Hated them. Even when this was the testimony that held the key to winning their case. Each of them would be affected in some way. A shudder. Some nausea. A sniffle. An urgent need to call home at the next break. And by the time the tough line of questions were concluded, everyone in this room would be leave shaken.

_Do you know the person in this picture?_

So it starts. They wouldn’t be here if the answer was _no_. Since the answer is always _yes_ , it begs the next question.

_Please remember a time when you were with them. What sorts of things did you do?_

Watch TV, eat junk food, practice baseball, play with my dog, and all the other things that were just as true as the thing that was avoided. And the thing that was going to have to be brought up sooner or later.

_Did this person ask you to keep a secret?_

The answer to which might require some additional coaxing. _You are safe. It’s in the past. You are doing the right thing by telling us the truth._ All of this was so hard — so hard — because everyone knew what had happened. Not everything, of course. Not the details, not the feelings, not the words that a child this young could dream up. That it happened was already despicable, asking the child to share their story — to break out of their silence — was doubly so.

_Who did you tell?_

Or necessary but worse.

_Is that a pretend story or is it the complete truth?_

Now that everyone understands that the victim believes their testimony so far to be the truth, the victim is pressed for further details. Sometimes they recalled everything. Sometimes they had mentally checked out and were unable to recall important information. Luis was the former. I was the latter. Either way, the questions kept coming.

_When this happened, was this person wearing clothes?_

At some point, the child was prompted to use the dolls or draw the scene to demonstrate what happened. The child inevitably looked down, both because it helps with the task but also because it provides a break from probing eye contact. 

_Could you point to the parts of the body you were touched?_

_Could you point to the parts of their body that touched you?_

Should the defendant happen to have male genitalia, the following questions are asked.

_Was it pointing up or pointing down?_

_Were there any special marks on it?_

_Did anything come out?_

Regardless of the defendant’s gender, the child was asked:

_How did it feel…._

If the child describes how badly it hurt, my heart broke. If the child describes how it hurt at first but then it was okay, my heart broke. If the child admitted there was any part of it they grew to like, my heart broke. Was it better to know the kid had been carefully groomed for this act or was it better to know they weren’t — that they were ambushed? What if they had been drugged?

Their story, regardless of which way their answers fell, was horrific. They endured it once. Now, they endured it again. It was unfair. Life was unfair.

Besides, there were more questions to ask.

_Did it happen more than once?_

_Did it happen with anyone else?_

If the answer was yes, the questions started from the top, with clarification asked for whenever the picture wasn’t crystal clear.

_Could you tell me more about that?_

_Is there anything else you can add?_

_Any little detail?_

_A smell? A feeling? Something you saw, perhaps?_

No, I wanted to say. Fuck off already. Leave him alone. He’s been through enough. But every next word, next scenario, next hurt, next feeling revealed both a content and a context designed to help judge and jury determine restitution — a ridiculous term since the long list of things stolen from the victim could never be restored. Fair enough. So I reframed it as recompense: a fee, some prison, enough notice when their time is up to ensure a restraining order is put in place.

Eventually, the flow of questions diminished to a trickle. What remained was to provide a chance for the victim to recant their story. A chance to take it all back. Say it never happened. None of it.

_Sometimes, when I’m telling a story, I like to exaggerate. It isn’t a lie. I just get carried away. It doesn’t make me a bad person to do this and it wouldn’t make you one either. But if you did do that today, now is the time to tell us. Was there anything that was untrue in the things you told us today?_

The phrasing had to be just so.

And when it was over, the judge and the prosecutor expressed their appreciation.

_Thank you. We appreciate your help. What you’ve just done was very important and the right thing to do. Your testimony will give us the information we need to keep this person away from you._

Luis and I left the room in the same way we arrived — with me right behind him. The first moment we were alone, I told him, “Luis, what you did in there was a big deal. I know how hard that was.” And because he liked baseball, I added, “You knocked it out of the park.”

He allowed me a fist bump.

I wouldn’t ask him if he was okay because he wasn’t.

I wouldn’t ask him what I could do to make it better because there was nothing. The best thing I could do was to get him doing normal kid things as quickly as possible. Having pre-arranged that he’d have the entire day off from school, I gave him a choice. “If you could skip the rest of school and do something fun, what would be better …ice cream or batting cages?”

“Batting cages,” answered Luis. A half smile slid across his face, “And _then_ we’ll get ice cream.”

“Oh, is that how it works? I give you a choice and you say both,” I teased, relieved to see a glimpse of his personality.

“You’re the one who said I was _that_ good. No take-backs.”

I conceded, “Fine, fine. Hey, isn’t today Beto’s half-day at school?”

It was. I checked. Beto knew we would be there. And I got the impression Luis was starting to see through the ruse. Nevertheless, I suggested as cluelessly as possible, “Maybe he can meet us there?”

“Definitely,” he agreed with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders pressed back to stroll out of the courthouse into the early afternoon.


	2. Chapter 2

So, we didn’t stop for ice cream cones after batting practice.

We went to the movies.

Then we went to the supermarket.

I handed Luis a hundred bucks and instructions to fill the shopping cart with sundae making supplies. He and Beto rose to the challenge and decided on Rocky Road, Strawberry, Coconut, Rainbow, Chocolate, Mocha Almond Fudge, Bubble Gum, Lemon, and Vanilla ice creams to be topped with fudge, butterscotch, caramel, strawberry, and marshmallow sauce. For the non-sauce variety of toppings, they got — gummy bears, sprinkles, chopped almonds, Fruit Loops and Oreos. And, for completeness, plenty of whipped cream and maraschino cherries.

“I see we’re having dessert for dinner tonight?” _Tia_ hid her accusation in a question and an especially evil squint. Beto spoke up, “No complaining, _Tia_. We called and asked. You already said it was okay.”

He did?

He winked at me — he did.

Word must have spread to the rest of the house quickly because each bag had a different set of hands to transfer the goods to the table. Stella and Ed bickered over the placement of toppings.

“No Ed…it’s nuts and _then_ the whipped cream.”

He disagreed, “What planet are you from, Stel? The nuts go on top of the whipped cream. And _then_ you put the cherry on top.”

She countered. “Okay, say it’s gummy bears and not nuts. If you put the bears on top of the whipped cream, they are going to sink. And that just isn’t right. So, wherever you put the gummy bears, you have to put the nuts.”

“Whatever,” he said and put the bowl nuts in line just before the cherries.

“I can say _whatever_ , too,” she quipped and slid them back to her position of choice.

There was someone missing. “Has anyone seen Raul?” I asked.

Luna said, “He’s still sleeping. Last time I saw him he was like totally out of it.”

 _Tia_ and I looked at each other. “I’ll check on him,” I offered and walked down the hall into the room with the bunk bed and the beanbag. The room was dark, lit mostly by the stream of light that slipped in between the heavy, drawn curtains. Raul was splayed on his back, sound asleep on the bottom bunk, his hair wet with sweat, and his elephant Lito just out of reach of the fist that hung off the pillow.

 _I should let him sleep_ , I thought.

But there was something — a niggling sense that I couldn’t describe. A quiet voice in my head whispered loud enough to alert me to a problem but not loud enough to tell me what was wrong. I opened the curtains and kneeled by the bed.

Raul’s cheeks were covered with little red bumps. A rash, perhaps? I felt his face. He was burning up.

I returned to the hallway and called out, “ _Tia_?”

She came in, her eyebrows instantly raised in concern. “Get some cold washcloths,” she instructed and peeked under his pajama collar. When I came back, his shirt was open. His torso was covered in the same red rash. From the doorway, it appeared as if he had a severe sunburn but up close they were more like angry red pinpricks. _Tia_ took the cool, damp cloth from my hand, spread them over his chest and his belly, and dabbed at his neck and face with the last one.

“I think he needs to go to the doctor,” I said. “This is more than the flu.”

“I think so, too. Octavio will be home soon and then one of us can take him.” _Mestre’s_ given name always sounded odd, possibly because there was only one person who said it aloud.

“Think it’s contagious?” I grimaced. Whatever he had didn’t look pleasant. “Maybe we shouldn’t wait? I could take Raul to the clinic now.”

She sucked in through her teeth and nodded. “Let me get his medical card and I’ll call the clinic to let them know you’re on the way.”

Before she left the room, I reminded her, “I need the medical authorization form, too — it’s in the initial file I gave you.”

I woke Raul. “Hey, bud.”

“Hey,” he croaked.

“How are you feeling?”

“Hot,” he admitted and peeled off the washcloths that had already warmed to body temperature.

“We’re going to the doctor.”

“You’re going to take me?”

“Yeah. Just stay put for a bit while I grab a few things,” I told him and put a bag together with extra shirts, pj's, and underwear. Then I grabbed a towel and his toothbrush.

Just in case.

Just in case _what_?

I didn’t know.

When I lifted Raul into my arms, he snuggled into my neck and continued to breath deeply, possibly asleep again. _Tia_ met me at the end of the hallway and stuffed Raul’s paperwork into my hand. “ _Esqueci_!” she huffed — _I forgot —_ and put a hand to her forehead. “Beto,” she ordered, “help _Polar_ with the car seat, eh?”

Car seat. It never crossed my mind. The law was that kids under 8 or under forty nine inches needed a car seat and they could only sit in the back. I _knew_ this but I hadn’t needed to personally act on it. Kids didn’t ride with me. I would see them places. At my office with their guardians, for example. Or at _Tia’s._ Or at class. Not in my car.

That was by design.

Professional distance helped to ensure I was beyond reproach. Perhaps now wasn’t the right time to contemplate why this kid under this circumstance caused me to do something different. Or why I kept looking at him in my rear view mirror to see what had changed since the last time I looked. Or why I drove five miles an hour under the speed limit when we had somewhere to be. Or why, when we checked-in, I refused to sit down and remained standing with Raul in my arms, maintaining eye-contact with the receptionist until she got a nurse to get us into a waiting room.

“But we were here first!” complained a guy with a teenager slumped next to him.

The nurse clucked at him, “This patient might be highly contagious. Don’t worry — you’ll still be seen in the order that you checked-in,” Then he whisked us into an examination room to check Raul’s vitals. The digital thermometer screen read _104.3_ degrees. The nurse addressed me, “He’ll be more comfortable if we can cool him down. I’m going to give him a cool compress and see if I can find some socks that I can wet down for him.”

“I have a spare set.” I reached into the bag next to me. Raul blinked his eyes open; he was groggy and struggled to sit upright. I asked, “Can he lie down again?”

The nurse helped him lay back. “Sure. You just lay back and get comfortable, Raul. Hopefully, it won’t be too much longer before the doctor gets here.”

Soon, it was just the two of us in this sterile-smelling room. He breathed through chapped lips. After a few moments, he lifted part of the cloth covering his eye and peeked out, “Tell me a story, ‘kay?”

“What kind of story?”

He thought for a moment, “Mmm…about a boy who got lost.”

“Where did he get lost?”

When Raul asked for a story, it was because he wanted to make up his own story. If I made something up right now, he would correct me. I would take his hint and make up the next step. He told me how it could be better. Eventually, I figured out it was best if I just asked the questions.

Raul answered, “I don’t know. He was lost.”

That didn’t mean he wanted me to tell the next bit — my question needed tweaking. “But what did he do if he was lost?”

“Um. He made a house.”

“What would he make it out of…could it be anything?”

“It’s supposed to be _your_ story.”

Okay, this was a first. “So, if it’s my story, he’s going to build his house out of lollipops.”

He gave me a weak smile and asked, “What happens when it rains?”

“The rain makes the outsides of the lollipops turn into sticky syrup that runs off the house.”

“Won’t the house melt?”

“Not totally,” I proposed. “Maybe…it just melted a little bit. The house still has a good twelve or twelve-and-a-half more rains in it.”

He folded the cloth back from his eyes and curled up on his side to look at me. “Okay. But then the ants come and ants are itchy.”

“Not if they’re special ants.”

“What kind of special?”

“Homing ants.”

Raul approved, “Like homing pigeons but ants. Yeah. And super strong.”

“Strong enough for a group of them lift a home made of lollipops?”

“Yeah but that just makes them regular ants,” he was underwhelmed with the ants tangent.

“And…they have special scent receptors.”

His eyes twinkled a little, “They know raptors? Are they friends or will the raptors eat them?”

“Receptors. Like a sensor or a detector. The can smell things that other ants can’t smell. Anyway, they can tell where a person is supposed to have their house just by smelling them. So they can tell when little boys get lost.”

Raul asked, “The ants are going to take the boy home?”

“Exactly. It’s their superpower. They are going to move his entire home to the place it’s supposed to be.”

“But what if the place is gone?”

“There’s still somewhere that’s going to be the best place. The ants know…they _always_ know.”

His eyes blinked wide open. “I know where they’re going to go.”

“To the licorice forest?”

“No.”

“To the great hot chocolate lakes?”

“No.”

“To…the great valley of birthday cake?”

“No. You’re not being serious,” Raul chastised me.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s okay to be silly.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“So,” I said and fussed with his soggy footwear, “where did the ants take the boy?”

“To his friend’s house.”

“What happened next?”

“They ate lollipops for a week.”

“Now, who’s being silly?” I suggested when a knock on the door preceded the doctor’s entrance. The nurse was behind him and loaded up a tray wooden tongue depressors, alcohol wipes, and a labeled tube with cotton swabs on long sticks. It took longer for the doctor to wash his hands than it took him to feel Raul’s lymph nodes, look at his throat, swab his tonsils, and assess his rash.

“Scarlet Fever,” the doctor announced and typed away at the computer next to the blood pressure equipment. “I won’t know for sure until the results come back. Since Raul could be well on his way to recovery by the time I get them, I’m going to call in a prescription of antibiotics for him now.”

“If he doesn’t start feeling better by this time tomorrow, bring him in again. Keep him isolated for next 24 hours or until his fever is gone. You may want to stay isolated yourself. Adults don’t catch it as easily as children but it is highly contagious and should be contained. If you start experiencing a sore throat or a fever, come in right away.”

“In the meantime, give him baby aspirin for the fever and feed him clear liquids - soup, juice, popsicles, that sort of thing. The nurse will give you a print-out with instructions before you leave.”

I took Raul straight home.

My home.

I carried him up the stairs and into the small bedroom in much the same way I carried him out of _Tia’s._ “If you can manage it, _Polar_ , it’s best for everyone. Besides,” she said, having come over with Raul’s medicine and a bag of food suggested by _So, Your Child Has Scarlet Fever_ , “you’re his favorite _tio_. He’ll think he’s on his own private holiday.”

Some holiday. As soon as Raul took his medicine and drank some juice, he went right back to sleep.

And I caught up with work.

And turned on the light when it got dark.

And considered making dinner.

And looked at the text when it came in.

_Dante: I understand you are entertaining a young man?_

_Dante: Should I be worried?_

_Me: He is only a very small man and he happens to be fast asleep._

_Dante: How bad is he?_

_Me: 104.3_

_Dante: WTF? Poor little dude._

_Me: Right?_

_Dante: Skype?_

The video invite buzzed at me as soon as I opened the app and as soon as I accepted, I saw Dante in my favorite linen shirt with his elbows perched on his knees.

_“Olá, tico.”_

“Hey, baby.” I wasn’t as original with my diminutives as he was but I was no less heartfelt. 

Something across the way caught my attention. It was just our neighbor’s living room lights went on. Technically, the lights are ours — Dante’s and mine. We bought the place four months ago and lucked out when they wanted to lease it back while they built their new house. 

“How was court today?”

“Good. Luis was a champ.”

“I bet he’s glad it’s over.”

“Over for today, anyway. How was your day? You look beat,” I said, though I knew this was the day he taught two lectures and went straight into two labs. The stack of student notebooks were just visible at the edge of my screen and, on the other side, a bottle of beer, which he lifted and took a swig of.

“Standard, standard. Nothing exciting, just looooong. What happened with Raul?”

“He wasn’t feeling well when I came to pick up Luis this morning but by the time I got back, he was down hard. _Mestre_ wasn’t home so it was either _Tia_ or me.”

Dante broke out a knowing smile, “I’m surprised you didn’t stay at the house.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” he hinted, which clearly meant something.

I was intrigued. “Tell me.”

“It was Raul, man. You’re such a sucker for him. Admit it.”

“Are you saying I wouldn’t have done the same for…?” I couldn’t think of anyone to compare to.

“Luis… _maybe_. But maybe not. The point is…yeah…you’ve got a connection with him. It’s nice.”

“Nice?”

“Yeah. It’s nice.”

“Huh.”

“And good practice.”

“Ha. For what?”

“For us…someday…”

“Us?” Instantly, my throat clenched.

“Yeah — us — kids — they’re fun. I don’t mean our own. I mean I wouldn’t say no…”

I didn’t _want_ kids. I liked them. I thought they were cool. I liked reading to them. I liked teaching them capoeira. And I liked giving them back. I liked having a house with adults where language (and other things) didn’t need to be monitored. I liked not having to worry about discipline or rules or what was happening when it was too quiet — or any number of things I couldn’t list because I didn’t know about them. And there was all that other stuff —

“Dante,” I hedged, unsure of how this never came up before, scared of what it might mean, “I can’t be a dad.”

He tilted his head in a way that reminded me of a cartoon of a robot with the caption, _does not compute_. “What?” He asked, “Why not?”

“It’s just…so many reasons. I can’t. I don’t think I could trust myself. Between my mom and…everything.”

He held his hair back with both of his hands and puffed out his cheeks. “That’s…wow. I didn’t realize…”

“Is it a deal breaker?” I threw that out there and immediately didn’t want to know his answer. Because his answer could be _yes._

“What? Uh…I…I just need to…that’s big.”

My stomach dropped. How could I have been so stupid? How did we buy a house together without talking about this? How did I think this would ever actually work?

“ _Tico,_ can you just stop?”

“What do you mean _stop?_ ”

“I can see your brain going a hundred miles an hour. We’ll figure it out. You’re up here this weekend. We should talk about this in person.”

The door to my left squeaked open and Raul came out of my old bedroom, bleary-eyed, the left side of his hair matted. He shuffled to the sofa, climbed up, and leaned against my side with the heft of an oversized plush toy.

“Hey squirt,” Dante greeted Raul from the other side of the computer screen, “I hear you aren’t feeling so hot.”

“No. You got bad intel, _Palhaço_. I _am_ feeling hot,” Raul corrected him.

I felt his forehead. “Hey, bud. You want a popsicle?”

He nodded and hung out with Dante while I got it for him.

“When are you coming back?”

“In nine days.”

“Then you’ll be here forever?”

“Not yet.”

“How many more days?” Raul asked.

I counted in my head. _Six weeks on Sunday. So that’s 42 days. But today is Monday. Add Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. 46 days. I’ll fly up. We pack on Saturday and drive back Sunday._

Dante replied, “Almost fifty days. Can you count that high yet?”

“I can count to twenty. Wanna hear?”

Raul showed off his mad counting skills while I went into the kitchen, found the kind of popsicle that was red on the top, white in the middle and blue on the bottom. Then I wrapped the bottom in layers of paper towels and handed it to him. It was bigger than his head.

He and Dante continued to chat. Raul told him about the Lollipop House and the Homing Ants. Dante told him one about making soup from a stone. Raul shared how Ed and K’von got in trouble for playing X-Box instead of doing their homework. Dantesympathized and said it was the same for him, except it was a Sega.

Raul was almost to the white part of the popsicle when he decided he’d had enough.

“You ready to go back to bed?” I asked.

He nodded and waved goodnight to Dante, who I said I’d call back in fifteen.

He pulled back the covers, climbed in and hugged Lito.

“If I cover you with the sheet, is that too hot or too cold?”

“Um. That’s good.”

I separated the sheet from the rest of the covers and wafted it over him so it rested just over his shoulders. Then I folded the other blankets in an accordion so all he had to do was reach down and grab the closest corner in order to pull it back.

“Need anything else?”

“I’m good,” He said. But he didn’t close his eyes and had something else to say. “Um… _Polar?”_

“What’s up?”

“So, you know how my dad’s coming back for me and everything?”

“He is?” This was the first I’d heard about it.

“Yeah. I mean you can’t tell. But he is.”

“How do you know?”

“Because…well, that’s not important.”

“It’s really important.”

Raul had been left in the parking lot of my office almost a year ago. He has consistently said he didn’t know anything about his real last name, his dad, his mom, his other family, his exact age, his birthday, where he used to live. If I had something — anything — I would have continued the search for relatives. As far as I knew, we still knew nothing. “Have you gotten a letter or a phone call?”

“No. I just know, okay? But that’s not why I said it.”

That worried me. It was hard enough for a kid to get through grieving the family he couldn’t be with but if he thought they were coming back for him, he’d never even start.

“So, why did you say it.”

Raul took a deep breath and explained, “It’s not about me. It’s about you.”

“Okay.”

“You would be a good dad for someone. Like if my dad weren’t coming back and I knew that I could stay with you, it would make me happy.”

“That’s…I don’t know what to say.”

“Just. Uh. I think you’d be good at it and you should try”

That’s what I told him when he was scared to try something I knew he could do: _I think you’d be good at reading, at counting, at gingas, at making your own bed, and you should try._

“I’ll think about it.”

“Promise?”

“I promise I’ll to think about it, Raul. I can’t promise more than that.” As soon as it left my mouth, I could hear it being parroted back to me in some future context.

_I promise I will think about doing fractions…_

_I promise I’ll think about eating my vegetables…_

_I promise I’ll think about wearing a helmet…_

_I promise I’ll think about wearing a condom…_

_I promise I’ll think about applying for college…_

_…but that’s it. I can’t promise that I’ll actually do it._

Raul closed his eyes, waited for a second or two, and then opened one of them to see if I was still there. He smiled.

“Raul?”

“Hm?”

I swallowed, terrified by the possibility that what I would say next would be a huge mistake and that I felt compelled to say it anyway. At the same time, I hoped that it would be taken in the spirit of _maybe_ with which it was meant. “If I ever did change my mind about becoming a dad, I would be lucky to find a kid like you.” 

He blinked several times until his lids drifted shut and he turned to curl up on his side with Lito held tightly against his chest. In a small, sleepy voice, he said, “…lollipops for a week.”


	3. Chapter 3

Between the phones turned on and the seat belts unbuckled prematurely, the sound inside the cabin was not unlike popcorn popping. One of those sounds, in particular, provoked one of the flight attendants to get on the speaker.

“On behalf of your Dallas-based flight crew, we’d like to introduce you to our last flight attendant. His name is Wentigo. He is nine feet tall and in charge of selecting the passengers who will stay behind to clean the plane. If you would like to volunteer for this position simply release your seatbelt early and he’ll catch you on the way out. Thank you.”

Prior sounds of unbuckling were replaced by a few sniggers and, to a lesser degree, grumbles of those who had to put themselves back together. I did neither and took my phone out of airplane mode. The following messages scrolled across my screen.

_Dante: How are you feeling?_

_Dante: Did you make it to your plane?_

_Dante: Hm. Maybe your phone is off?_

_Dante: I’ll meet you outside security._

_Dante: I’m here._

_Dante: <3_

Two days ago, I woke up with a sore throat to end all sore throats and texted Dante from the clinic waiting room to give him a heads-up that I might need to stay home this weekend. The feeling of relief when I hit <send> was quickly replaced by dread.

The reason for this?

I wasn’t looking forward to The Talk. The one we agreed to postpone until we were face-to-face. The one we started at the beginning of this week. The one about kids. The one neither of us should compromise on, no matter how much he said we’d figure it out together.

The one that could do us in.

This specific sense of dread didn’t have so much to have with The Talk, itself — that one had been running on a low-grade infinite-loop since our call ended on Monday night. It was the realization that I was willing to avoid it by avoiding _him_. I wasn’t worried about _my_ realization, mind you. I was worried about _his_.

When he hadn’t responded by the time I left the doctor’s office or by the time I picked up antibiotics or by the time I ordered hot and sour soup, I figured he had my number.

I had tied myself into a million knots, convinced of his omniscience. He knew, for example, that I would no longer be contagious after twenty-four hours - even though _I_ didn’t know that until after I had sent him that text. That he figured out that I didn’t want to talk about anything that led to my proclivity to remain, for all intents and purposes, child-free. That I was exactly as inflexible as I claimed to be on the matter and, therefore, there was no reason to discuss it further. As a result, he was perfectly okay with me canceling my trip. That’s why he didn’t respond. Therefore, there would be no use in talking to me. It was easier to give up. It was all over.

But.

Actually.

His phone died.

By the time he got my message, he was simply, unobtrusively, lovingly, adorably concerned about my welfare.

I wanted to cry.

So I did.

And when I was done, I decided that I would get on that plane as scheduled, regardless of how many levels of shit I felt as of Friday. As it now stood, my current feeling-like-shit rating was five out of ten — in other words — much improved from two days ago. I also got a free pass on my freak out. He didn’t even know it had happened. And won’t.

Thus, I was newly resolved to willingly cooperate in this particularly difficult conversation.

_Me: Just landed. Got all your messages._

_Me: Feeling vaguely human but better for knowing you’re here._

_Me: <3_

Three dots showed up immediately followed by —

_Dante: I have a surprise for you._

He liked his surprises and liked it even more when, after a string of questions, my guess was wildly off from what he had planned.

For example.

“Are we going to spend a morning at the Botanical Gardens?”

“No.”

“The Japanese Tea Garden, then. For tea…and garden…and something Japanese - music, if they have it.”

“No,” he said with a shake of his head more minute than his eye roll. And when he pressed his lips together in a tight smile it seemed to say, _you aren’t even trying, are you?_ But then he brought out a single, perfect specimen of a flower that he’d been holding behind his back. “A _Passiflora incarnata_ ,” he said. “It’s also known as a passionflower, a flower from a wild apricot vine. I like the popular name: a maypop. It’s fun to say, isn’t it?”

It was a dramatic-looking flower that was almost as large palm. It reproductive anatomy — the stigma in purple, the anther in orange-yellow, the ovary in light green — was displayed forthrightly as if it should be cast as the star in a floral burlesque. The filaments that from the center going out were in rings of deep violet, light yellow, purple, white and, at the curlicued ends, cornflower blue. These floated above cream-colored petals.

“Baby, it’s beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it and…I almost feel I should blush looking at it,” my praise was genuine, though I wasn’t sure what to do with a single flower.

“Oh, you should. They are strumpets — total floozies. You can’t take them anywhere,” he joked, his eyes glittering with the part of the surprise he hadn’t yet revealed. “Once they are planted, anyway.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Oh, it’s just a little something I’ve been working on in my lab.”

In other words, he _designed_ it. This was _his_ flower. I couldn’t say whether he was more of a botanist or a horticulturist but I did know that he focused on creating new strains of plants and developing plant ecologies at the edges of rainforests. Beyond that, it went over my head.

“Tell me more,” I prompted.

“Hm. Well, it attracts bees and butterflies. And hummingbirds. Hummingbirds like this almost as much as honeysuckle. The fruit is delicious, close to passionfruit but sweeter. It has to be closely contained or it will grow over everything. In the US, it likes the southeast but I know it from Brazil. But this one is special…”

“Because?”

“…it was grown in a soil sample from our back garden,” Dante admitted, and with his head tilted downward, he looked up at me through his eyelashes, uncharacteristically bashful, while he waited for my verdict. “Do you like it?”

It took a moment to sink in. He made this specifically to in the garden of the house we bought together.

I loved it.

Not all of his surprises were quite so dramatic. On other occasions, he presented himself to me with a hand behind his back and said, “I brought you a surprise.” Only to produce a bar of soap on a day I was too lazy to get my ass in the shower. Or it might have been a pencil on the morning I attempted a crossword in pen. Or his hand would be empty, so he’d laugh and question whether I was too greedy for his surprises but rather than leaving me with nothing, he’d lean down and give me a kiss.

Finally. The seatbelt sign in the cabin went off, which set off a brief, snapping racket of metal-on-metal, a push for everyone to stand to urgently gather their luggage, regardless of their proximity to the front of the plane. I stubbornly remained seated until those who sat two rows in front of me had started moving.

Dante would laugh at me, “Why does it matter?” Since I had no reasonable answer, I might lean in to say, “If I can’t keep people from standing before it’s efficient to do so, how will I ever achieve world domination?” He’d respond with something far too funny or clever to have stemmed from my imagination.

I sent Dante a text.

_Me: Deplaned. See you in a mo._

I was grateful when the mass trudge off the plane quickened to a clip at the first corner of the airbridge. From there, I could move a bit more freely. That is, until I got to the terminal where I came in contact with lines of people at the restaurants, display stands just outside the bookshops, toddlers with fuzzy backpacks in the middle of the floor, people with coffee in one hand and a bag in the other that would weave one way, then the other, and back again only to make a joke out of it, _shall we dance_? Sure, whatever.

Then I saw him. Dante was just beyond security, exactly where he said he’d be. He wore jeans, a bomber jacket, the oversized scarf I got him for Christmas, and as soon as he saw me, a small sexy smile that made his eyes glimmer. Soon, I was wrapped around him just as he was wrapped around me and all obstacles in getting here were already forgotten. A passerby swept past and knocked me slightly to the left, “I’m so sorry,” he said and held out his hand in apology even as he walked away.

“Let’s get out of here,” Dante proposed and took my hand to lead me outside. We weren’t going the normal way to BART or to Caltrain. Instead, we headed toward the taxi queue.

There, I saw my surprise.

“Seth!”

“Hey,” he said and pulled me into a bear hug. Our mother gave him her straight, golden hair and bright blue eyes and, at six feet, he had an inch or two on me as well. We were always compared to each other, as brothers are. He liked team sports; I liked individual ones. He liked geometry; I liked logic. He liked dense, old-growth woods; I liked craggy, foggy beaches. We weren’t opposite to one another, merely askew.

“How are you here?”

“I was here for a conference and stayed for an interview,” he said and looked more relieved than pleased about having some prospects lined up before he graduated in two months.

“My brother, the pharmacist. That’s amazing,” I said and pulled him close again.

It was our turn for a taxi. Dante got in front to give the driverdirections to a restaurant on Clement and to give me and Seth a few moments to catch up.

“How’s…Lisa, is it?”

He wrinkled his nose. “She’s nice but…”

“But?”

“I don’t think we’ll be together much longer.”

I nodded in sympathy, “I’m sorry.”

“There’s a bit of a clue when the break-up discussion is more worrying than the outcome,” he continued. Some time ago, Seth admitted that he didn’t really get why being attracted to someone meant that he was supposed to act on it. Not that he didn’t fall in love. He did. It just didn’t seem to happen in the same way that people fell in love with him. He tried with women; he tried with men. He described his entire history with a shrug, “It was a whole lot of _meh_.”

“Yeah,” I empathized, “that definitely says a lot. Is there anyone else?”

“Nah. But enough about that. Let’s talk about you, huh? The big move is coming up. You excited?”

The taxi driver opted to take the 380 over to the 280 rather than stay on the 101. It was on the tip of my tongue to bring up how I thought the taxi driver preferred the ease of taking right turns over getting us to our destination faster. A moment later, I would have felt generous and presented the alternative that he simply liked driving through the long stretch of the Sunset more than the short scramble through the Haight. I had already looked the map up on my phone; Google said that taking the 101 was two-tenths of a mile longer but it was faster, despite the usual traffic. I didn’t have to speak one word to feel vindicated.

Dante was happily conversing with the taxi driver about baseball or football or soccer or whatever sport was affiliated with the San Francisco Giants.

Seth nudged me, “Dude?”

I nodded and took a deep breath before speaking under my voice “It’s great. It’s huge. It scares the hell out of me.”

“Of what?”

“The kid thing. It came up a few days ago.”

Seth’s mouth formed an O. He nodded, clamped it shut, and pressed his lips together. I could tell he had Opinions so it was best to get it out now. “Say it,” I requested.

“Don’t get pissed at me.”

“Okay,” I said and hoped that he knew how difficult it was to piss me off. Irritate? Absolutely. Spin me up? Yeah. Dyspeptic? Unfortunately, yes. But to get really mad? No. I didn’t get mad or angry or irate or lose my temper or anything like that.

He leaned into me and I could feel the heat from his forehead on mine. “This kid thing, right? Is it like you feel like you _should_ want one, but never seem to come around and feel neutral or maybe something pleasant? Or is it more like you have strong feelings about it — like you’re scared or anxious about how it might turn out. Or…I don’t know…is it about something else?”

Strong feelings? Check.

Scared and anxious? More like terrified.

I would fuck it up so badly.

“Why?” I whispered. “Does it matter?”

“Yeah, I think it does. I’ve thought a lot about this because…well…someday I want them. But I’m worried. So, I can only imagine you’d be, too. Seriously, we didn’t exactly have the best role models, you know? What if I turn out like mom? What if I lose it on a kid? Or what if I’m like dad and start making unilateral decisions? Neither of those are good, right?”

I nodded.

“And all those counseling sessions we went to? Dude…those were for mom.”

“That’s not true. Yeah, there was stuff for mom but there was also coping strategies and the stuff around anxiety for me.”

He hunkered down closer, “Be honest. How much did you talk about why you changed schools? Or about coming out? Or what about the thing that landed you in the hospital? I don’t think you did.”

I didn’t.

“Maybe you did,” Seth went on. “I wasn’t supposed to ask you about it. I could be wrong. Am I?”

I shook my head and said, “No, you’re not.”

“How much have you told Dante?”

Again, I shook my head. This was all supposed to be behind me. I was _over it_ , whatever that meant. “Nothing he didn’t see for himself.”

Dante and I spoke at length about Tyrell and Rory. About my coming out (or lack thereof) and how it was different for him. About why Tyrell and I never connected beyond a handful of online interactions. About what it was like to leave our parents before everyone left theirs. We talked about capoeira and how I wasn’t able to use it in those few instances that I should have. About whether _Mestre_ should teach more self-defense against street fighting tactics for the kids that have been picked on.

How much did he know about what happened with mom? Not so much. And as far as what happened with the coach? No. That story got told twice: to the police when I learned they got the wrong guy and to the courtroom after they got the right one. I never told Danny or Seth, Jax or Dante, Bernie or Scott, Mom or Dad, Dr. Perlman or anyone else.

Nor did I plan to.

Seth scrutinized me. His eyes scanned from my eyes, across my face, and down to my hands where they stayed for a few moments while he mulled over an idea that formed. Perhaps the idea was already there and he merely mulled how to put together his words so that I’d understand them. He remained silent longer than I was comfortable with his silence.

Dante and the driver kept chatting; the latter was talking about his family still in Ethiopia and how long it would be before he could get them here. We stayed in the left lanes in order to merge with 19th Street. We passed Holloway at the school, Winston at the mall, Sloat near Stern Grove, and the first of the alphabet streets that went backward from Wawona and ended at Irving. Seth didn’t speak again until we crossed Rivera Street.

“I think you should talk to someone,” whispered Seth.

“What?”

“A professional. It sucks that you didn’t get better help at the time but it’s not too late. You know what I mean? And…” Seth flicked his eyes to the road and then back to me, still in a whisper, “maybe you should tell Dante. I mean…tell him enough so he knows why its so overwhelming for you.”

“I don’t know.”

“Well. Either way. It’s not like I’m the guy with answers. ‘Cause I’m really not,” he huffed through his grin, while he ran his fingers through his hair and watched as we passed several miles of two-story pastel houses interspersed with the rare gas station, restaurant, or conservatory.

“Could you do it?”

“Could I, would I … or will I?”

“I’m not asking you to have the conversation for me. I’m asking…if you had something that you never wanted to acknowledge, never wanted to even think about again, would you talk so freely?”

“Micah,” he looked at me seriously now, his eyes penetrated mine. “I’m not saying it’s not hard. But, seriously — how is talking about it worse than going through it in the first place?”

“Besides,” he continued. “I’m not saying you should talk freely about it. What I _am_ saying is that I think your past still affects you. If it affects you, it affects your decisions. It’s like you’re still in the closet….but it happens to be a different closet than the one people think of coming out of.”

“What if he freaks, alright? What if it’s too much? I don’t want to lose him,” I mouthed.

“He doesn’t want to lose you either. So…there’s that.”

There was something in the way he said it that made me think…no. But this was Dante. So…yes. He wouldn’t have. Oh my god. Strike that. He so would. Fine. I decided to ask, “How do you know?”

Seth’s eyebrows disappeared under his bangs and he gulped, “How do I know what?”

“Tell me the truth.”

“About what?”

“How do you know he doesn’t want to lose me?”

“It’s obvious.”

“Nuh uh. What did he tell you?”

Seth pursed his lips and opened his eyes wide. I wasn’t going to buy this innocent looking shit. “What makes you think he told me anything?”

“You did a thing.”

“A thing?”

“Yeah. A thing. It was that thing you do…anyway, I can tell. He talked to you about it first. So, what did he want you to say?”

“Nothing.”

“Fine. Don’t tell me.”

“I’m _not_ doing his bidding or whatever you think this _thing_ I do is. _”_

“But he talked to you. What did he say?” I inquired and kept my voice both soft and curious, while in my heart of hearts I knew that Dante had put him up to at least some of this.

My brother crossed one arm over the other and crossed one leg over the other — the right over the left in both cases — and looked out the far window. “Oh, I didn’t know we’d be passing through Golden Gate Park. I can’t really see anything through. Maybe I’ll check it out tomorrow.”

“Seth.”

“Micah.”

“Give it up, man.”

“Nothing to give.”

The taxi took us through the park and into the Richmond District. We were almost there. And when we turned onto Clement, Seth spoke again. “He knew you were freaking out.”

“What else?”

“That you’re a dumb shit.”

I smiled. “He said that?”

“No. I did.”

It was a thing Dante would say — in the fondest of ways, I’m sure. Seth would only say it if he were annoyed with me. “Why?” I asked.

“Because,” Seth hissed, “this thing has been hanging over you for more than a decade. It was totally out of your control. All of it. You keep making the choice to commit to staying closed up about the whole business. The thing that makes no sense is why your commitment stays with the thing in your past more than it does for all that’s waiting in your future? And you don’t even see it.”

He concluded, “So when you ask me whether I’d be willing talk about something so painful, my answer is yes.”

“Were you really here for a conference?”

“Oh, my god. You are so suspicious. As it turns out, I was,” he admitted with a knowing half-smile.

The taxi pulled up to a Korean restaurant with glossy photos of barbecue and hotpot. Dante paid the driver and cleared his throat as joined us on the sidewalk, “Does this work? If not, there’s Chinese, Pho, Thai, burgers…” He pointed out the different options as he said them.

“This is perfect,” said Seth and he made a bee-line for the heavy red enameled door of the Korean place and held it open for us.

I pressed back against Dante and murmured, “I _know_ talked to Seth.”

“I did,” He held my hand and walked me inside the restaurant while he continued to talk, “and even though you were irritated at first, I think you have already forgiven me. This is very generous of you and I appreciate it.” Then he gave me a peck on my cheek and went to the hostess station to ask for a table.

We were led to a table and Seth took off to find the restroom. After he wandered off, I had something more to say to Dante, “Don’t think we’re done talking about this.”

“Ah —okay,” he shrugged, meant it was no big deal. I didn’t know how he could be so casual about it. It was a big deal.

“I mean it.”

Dante put his menu down, twisted to face me, and leaned in to ask me, “Tico, why are you upset?” He looked and sounded genuinely confused.

“Because, you—”

He raised his eyebrows and waited for me.

“Because.”

“Because?”

“Yes.”

“Ah. But you love me?”

“Yes.”

“And you want me?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll forgive me?”

“Probably,” I said and realized was being dramatic. “There’s nothing to forgive, baby. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Dante swept the front of my hair off my face and, when it fell right back to where it started, he did it again. “Ach. It’s being difficult — just like its owner.”

“Am I so difficult?”

“Yes,” he reflected and tried once again to make my hair behave.


End file.
